At 53, I still work hard with retirement a long way off. My mother, now 80, lives with me. She isn’t bedridden or helpless—she washes herself, cooks, even pops to the shops or takes a stroll in the park. But, how to put it… she drains me. Like she’s plugged into my very life force.
I drag myself home after work, utterly spent. I sit with her over tea, listening to how her day went, desperate just to shut myself in my room, turn on the telly, and sink into sleep.
But no. Mum expects conversation—not just chat, but lectures. As if I’m still a fifteen-year-old schoolgirl.
*”If only you’d listened to me and married Jeremy instead of that no-good husband of yours,”* she drones on. *”You’d be happy now—children, a proper career. Instead, you’re alone. Unwanted. Except by me.”*
*”Be grateful you still have a mother. Appreciate it. Look after me.”*
Yes, I have no children. My husband? Gone. Or, more accurately, I think he just couldn’t take it. We married, moved in together, and exactly one month after Mum came to live with us, he filed for divorce. Can’t blame him. To her, renting a flat when we had a three-bedroom house was pure madness.
So here I am, in that same house—with Mum. We each have our bedrooms, but the kitchen and living room are shared. And so, of course, is the constant tension.
Every move I make is scrutinised. Every single one.
*”Why are you back so late?”*
*”What did you waste money on this rubbish for?”*
*”Why haven’t you washed my things? Changed the bedding?”*
*”You forgot to feed Whiskers again.”*
Never once do I hear *”thank you”*, *”well done”*, *”you look nice”*, or *”take a break.”* Just criticism. From dawn till dusk. Day after day.
I can’t move out. My salary’s a joke—nowhere near enough for my own place. Even if I found a cheap bedsit, my conscience wouldn’t allow it. What if something happened to her while I wasn’t there?
But truth be told? Sometimes I feel like I’m losing my mind. Yes, it sounds awful. Yes, she’s my mother. I’m grateful for my life, of course. But some days, I just want to vanish. Even for a weekend. No nagging, no nitpicking, no suffocating watchfulness.
I’m exhausted. Lonely, despite not being alone. Trapped—body and soul—in a cage I can’t escape.
Where does duty end and martyrdom begin?
Do I even have the right to feel this way?
I don’t know. But I do know this can’t go on.
